Chapter 10 - The Unshakable Foundation
-10-
Autumn returned to Chicago with its familiar, dramatic flair—painting the city in vibrant shades of copper, amber, and deep crimson, whipping crisp, invigorating winds off Lake Michigan.
With our corporate operations running like a well-oiled machine and Lily thriving in her second-grade classroom, I found myself with a rare commodity: time. Time to breathe, time to reflect, and time to invest in passions outside of the boardroom.
I enrolled in a competitive weekend ceramic arts class at the Art Institute of Chicago—something I had always wanted to do back in college before getting swept up in the whirlwind of corporate life and building Nathan’s career. Spending three hours every Saturday morning shaping raw clay on a spinning potter's wheel provided a visceral, grounding contrast to the sharp, digital world of spreadsheets, profit margins, and legal contracts.
One Saturday in mid-October, as I was carefully centering a mound of wet gray clay on the wheel, my phone vibrated in my apron pocket.
I paused the wheel, wiped my clay-covered hands on a damp towel, and pulled out the phone.
It was an encrypted notification from Marcus Vance’s office regarding a final administrative matter concerning Nathan’s incarcerated estate.
Elena, Marcus’s text read. State correctional facility authorities contacted us this morning. Nathan has officially submitted a formal request for a family mediation session, claiming he wants to ‘discuss co-parenting parameters’ and petition for supervised visitation rights. Judge Callahan has forwarded the request to our office for preliminary comment. Do you wish to respond, or shall we issue an immediate motion to dismiss based on protective orders and felony conviction status?
I stared at the screen for a moment, watching the blue light flicker against the workshop window.
Co-parenting parameters. Visitation rights. The audacity of a man who had embezzled four hundred thousand dollars, abused his daughter, and tried to throw us out into the snow on Christmas Eve never ceased to amaze me. He had spent his entire life expecting people to clean up his messes, rewrite his failures, and grant him endless second chances.
I tapped out a quick reply to Marcus.
Issue an immediate motion to dismiss with prejudice, Marcus. Attach copies of his conviction record and the psychological evaluation from child protective services. Make sure he understands that his parental rights were legally severed the day he tried to trade his family for a condo in Lincoln Park.
Consider it done, Marcus replied within seconds. Enjoy your pottery class.
I locked my phone screen, tossed it back onto the supply shelf, and stepped back up to the potter’s wheel. I pressed my foot down on the pedal, letting the heavy stone spin into motion, sinking my hands back into the cool, responsive clay.
As I applied gentle pressure with my palms, watching the gray mound rise upward into a smooth, elegant cylinder, I realized why Nathan’s request didn't bother me in the least.
He was still playing by the old rules—believing that legal paperwork, emotional manipulation, or polite requests could alter the architecture of a reality he had destroyed. But he didn't understand the new rules.
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In my world, clay didn't shape itself around whatever mold was convenient. You had to center it, you had to fire it in the kiln, and you had to forge it into something unbreakable.
And my foundation was cast in iron.
